


Yours, Anne

by annewithagee (margaret_helstone)



Category: Anne of Green Gables - L. M. Montgomery
Genre: F/M, Letters, Shirbert, a Book of Revelation, anne of the island - Freeform, shirbert get-together, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-09-14 23:56:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16922814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/margaret_helstone/pseuds/annewithagee
Summary: On her night of Revelation Anne realised she could no longer stay idle, resolving to write to her dearest, dying friend instead.Yes, she would write.She would write as if she would speak to him, openly and clearly, honestly and bravely.She would tell him everything he needed to know – everything she needed to tell.Even if he was never going to read it.





	1. I couldn't say it then

**I couldn’t say it then**

* * *

“ _Gilbert Blythe is dying.”_

The words rang in her ears long after Davy had so carelessly pronounced them. She still couldn't quite comprehend how he could have been so… unfeeling, speaking of such a news with so little thought to it – one moment he'd been talking about outgrowing Milty Boulter at last, only to announce the news about her dearest friend's impending death in the other.

“He is just a child,” Anne whispered to herself, as if trying to convince her own hurting self that Davy had indeed meant no harm. She knew that he hadn't; and he hadn't _announce_ Gilbert's illness, he'd _asked_ whether she knew about it, probably expecting that she _had._

After all, what kind of friend wouldn't have known about it?

“I didn't,” she said again, her voice cracking and shivering with a thousand of emotions that swirled to her right now.

Oh, how stupid she'd been! How blind and determined in her stubbornness, refusing to admit what the whole world knew, what they had known and expected ever since she and Gilbert had first become friends. She had only just accused Davy of being careless, and still, what was he compared to herself? He was barely a boy, not yet in his teens, and speaking of someone he hadn't seen much of late – and what was her excuse? That she had been confused? Or that she'd been afraid to lose whatever she and Gilbert had used to have – while her own thoughtless actions had made them break their precious bond in the end?

That she had been too proud to admit she'd been wrong all along, when she still had the time to pronounce it?

“But I wasn't wrong,” she protested firmly, contradicting the guilt that was beginning to overcome her so painfully. “I wasn't wrong to refuse him when I didn't know my own heart, when I could only pretend to… accept him… I was _wrong_ about my feelings and I was _wrong_ about my heart but I was _honest_ with him as I only could be. I couldn't say -”

_I couldn't say that I loved him back then._

“Oh, but I _did_ ,” she exclaimed in a heart-wrenching cry, feeling another shiver go through her, with more tears streaming down her heated, unhealthily flushed cheeks. “I have loved him all along and was too much of a fool to notice – no, to as much as _consider_ it! Had I listened to Phil, to Diana, to _Mrs Lynde_ and just entertained the idea, I would have had to realise it sooner. All the longing, all the jealousy – and I still couldn't see what he really meant to me. What he _always_ had meant.”

The wind outside was howling, the rain beating furiously against the roof, and yet, as Anne kneeled by her window that night, she could hardly pay mind to any of it. Her book of revelation had been opened now and she had already read it so many times during the hours that had passed since she had first heard the dreadful news. Midnight was nearing; the tempest raged outside.

And in the east gable, a broken girl shook with sobs.

“Please, don't take him away like this,” she stammered after another while, raising her eyes to the black sky before her, trying to look through the drops on the glass and the mist of her own reddened eyes. “You have saved me so many times in my life. When I was too young to know your name – when I was too lonely and chagrin to admit that I did. You've made me survive cold and hunger and disdain and led me to a household that made sure I would never have to endure those again – and I've hardly ever asked you for anything after you'd blessed me with happiness like this. But just tonight, just this _once_ , I ask – I plead – I _beg_ you not to end his life just yet. I don't dare to ask for a second chance with him – only that we can both get out of this nightmare safely. That he can live the life he'll choose for himself… Even if _I_ am no longer a part of it.”

She winced at the realisation the last sentence brought, but did not retrieve her words. It was, indeed, a _sentence_ – unless Gilbert had still cared for her, something she had so strongly believed at the beginning of this horrid night but found less and less convincing as the night progressed, she had just willingly given up on her life and happiness with him.

And yet, none of it really matter.

Her peace and happiness didn't matter.

Only he did.

Anne took a deep breath and wiped her eyes before standing up abruptly as yet another thunder echoed through their land. She could not keep doing this. She couldn't just kneel and shake, cry and fear – and there wasn't a prayer that could tell any more that the one she had uttered. She couldn't sleep – she couldn't abandon her watch. She couldn't betray his trust for something as petty idle as rest.

She sighed again. If she could have it her way, she would have left her little room hours ago and fled to his own without a second thought. Oh, her reputation would have suffered, but she wouldn't have cared in the least – If it hadn't been for her concern for his own good fortune and name. Her arrival at the Blythe farm would have been a scandal on its own, if only for the resentment Gilbert's mother had shown… but what mattered was that _he_ would find out, and soon, regardless of whether she would be let anywhere near to where he was right now.

He would have despised her for her thoughtlessness like so many other people did, and yet, he would have felt obliged to act recklessly on his own, trying to save what little would have been left of her repute – and then he would hate her even more.

No, she could not go. Even if she was right and her imagination was just playing another trick on her – even if she had been welcomed by both parents and son, it was still a risk she was not allowed to take, for both of their sakes.

She would not impose herself on him like this.

Still, she could not spend the night doing nothing, or she would soon lose her grieving mind – and as weak and despaired she now felt, she was not going to give up that easily. She would fight for _him_ tonight – and she would fight for _them_ as well, if he only allowed her to.

“While there's life, there is hope,” she echoed after Mrs Lynde, holding onto the words that had seemed so shallow only mere hours ago. Her tired eyes shifted to her old school desk and the sheets scattered on it; the equipment she'd used while writing to Phil before her trip to Echo Lodge seemed to be waiting to be used again.

With sudden determination, Anne straightened up and walked over to the desk, a new resolution prompting her to action.

Yes, she would write.

She would write as if she would speak to him, openly and clearly, honestly and bravely.

She would tell him everything he needed to know – everything _she_ needed to tell.

Even if he was never going to read it.


	2. First

**First**

* * *

 

_Green Gables_  
_Avonlea_  
_Tuesday, July 28th  
_ _A quarter to twelve_

_Dear Gilbert,_

_I have no right to write this letter, and you most certainly are most unwilling to read it. I do have to write it, however, if only to keep me sane for the night – a reason most selfish, if I hadn’t already resolved that the letter written in my room should never reach yours._

_It is quite irregular, of course. Why waste paper, time and ink on correspondence that I can't ever hope to send? Why bother with words, knowing you could never lay your eyes on them?_

_A small, hateful part of me hints that you would not pay any regard to the lines, even if I delivered the envelope to your hands. And truly, how can I argue with this thought, knowing how deeply I have hurt you already?_

_I'm neither bold or foolish enough to believe that after everything that has happened to us, everything **I** have done to **you,** you could still care for anything I have to say._

_And yet here I am, sitting by my desk in the east gable, writing down whatever comes to mind. There is no structure to this letter, not plan to follow. You know I always have one when it comes to my silly, unimportant stories – as romantically careless as they may seem, I never truly improvise with them, replaying them with my head over and over again, until they gain the perfect shape of what I need them to be. I used to blame that on my own laziness, something I'd never admit to anyone but you; and then again, how could I not, if it was you who pointed it out for the first time?_

_On the other hand, that only seems like another reason **not to** admit it to you._

_The funny thing about this is that it turns out we were both wrong about it – me, stubbornly claiming that I needed time to polish them in my head before writing and you, patiently repeating that it would be far more productive to sit down and write, not minding how awful this first draw would be, if only to have something solid to work on later._

_Or maybe, somehow, we were both in the right?_

_I can see you laugh and shake your head at me for what I'm going to say now, but there is a realisation to which I came tonight. It was not laziness that kept me away from my pen – but it wasn't any of my 'greater reasons', either._

_What really stopped me then was my fear._

_I was afraid, Gil – afraid of losing control over my stories, my plots, my characters behaviour even. You teased me about making them speak with grand words and even grander gestures – I did not listen, because somewhere deep inside I knew that if I had, they'd slip through my fingers and go on with their lives, making choices far more sensible than their teen, inexperienced Mother wanted them to make._

_I've had so many fears in my life – some of them so silly I can only laugh at them now, some serious and troubling even at this point. But whether it was my imagination scaring me out of my wits during my walk in the Haunted Wood or my certainty that I could never belong, back at the orphanage – I always managed to battle them somehow, proudly realising that I could at least face them when need be._

_Never in my life have I thought it was the lack of control that frightened me most._

_And still, it is true, even though I did not realise any of it until now; it seems, however that my Book Of Revelation describes more than I initially thought._

_And it all makes perfect sense, you know – with me having so little control – no control, really – over my own life for the first eleven years of it, it is only natural that I wanted to fight for some as soon as I found a home that allowed it. It wasn't about reigning my tempter, of course; we both know how hard it is for me even now. But the rest I could handle – I would do chores and I would learn, determined to make myself useful. I couldn't change my looks (not for the lack of trying, as Marilla would undoubtedly remind me) but I could prove my worth in other, more practical ways._

_Perhaps beating a certain arrogant, dashing boy in every subject save geometry might have been just another way of showing that._

_No, not just **might**. It **was**. As childish as all of our rivalry was, for me it was exactly that: me proving everyone around me that if I chose to be the best, I would be. And try as he might, Gilbert Blythe would not affect the goal I was aiming at._

_I wish I could say it stopped that day in the summer, when we met by the gate of your farm; but that would be just another lie. I was grateful for your forgiveness, of course, and more than happy to return your friendship and yet, I never gave up trying to dictate my own terms. You weren't much better, to be fair – we're both far too stubborn to simply have agreed to whatever the other one had to say – but it hurts me to finally understand the real motives that pushed me to it._

_As independent as I always knew you were, I never quite gave up the idea of staying in charge. I wanted to control our friendship, even if unconsciously – so when it started to change, when **you** started to change, I felt lost and stepped away. I was so very confused; I tried to remind you of what we had and how good it was for us, but you kept moving, slipping through my fingers and stepping on the path I had not planned for us._

_And yet you were so determined to take me there with you._

_I panicked, Gil._

_I panic a lot more often than I ever let myself show, even – or especially – in front of you. But I do, and it's never as vehement as when I start losing control._

_I have no control over tonight._

_I wish I could come and see you. I wish I could help your mother tend to you. I wish, oh how I wish there was **anything** I might do to ease the pain and break the fever that are consuming you! But all I can do is pray that while I'm away, you find enough strength to fight this battle on your own._

_You have so many people that love you, Gilbert, and for them, you need to face this fight._

_Fight for your parents, going crazy over you at home._

_Fight for your friends that wish you well in their own._

_Fight for Christine, if she's the one you chose._

_They say you can't win this one, that it is way too late too hope, even though I tell them you're too strong to give up like this and that I know that you will make it. That we will all laugh at the memory one day._

_Don't you dare prove me wrong._

_Yours sincerely,  
Anne_


	3. Second

**Second**

* * *

 

_Green Gables_  
_Avonlea_  
_Wednesday, July 29th  
_ _A quarter past two_

_Dear Gilbert,_

_It's been two hours since I signed my name under the previous letter and yet, I am no closer to sleep than I was when I started it. I thought writing would tire me enough to make me long for rest, but it will not – and to be completely and entirely honest with you, I don't think anything other than news of your improvement could calm me down enough for me to fall asleep._

_Marilla came to my room soon after I had finished writing, determined to usher me to bed, reprimanding me for neglecting my health just as you apparently had yours. I listened; I let her tug me under the covers safely, just like she used to tug me all these years ago, before Redmond, before the twins, before the hurt and misery of Matthew's sudden death._

_I'm quite sure she's never done that after we became friends._

_And yet, all of her care was of no use to me, no matter how long she would sit by my bed or how affectionately she would stroke my hair. I stayed under my duvet until she left, pretending to feel better or to even be asleep – it was, after all, the only way to make her go, and as selfish as I have proved to be in the past, Marilla's sleep is not something I'd like to see her sacrifice for my sake._

_She needs so much more of it without me robbing her of it, Gil._

_I wanted to jump out of bed the second I heard her close the door, if only to kneel by my window and look into the night again; but of course, I couldn't. I knew Marilla was standing there, waiting, making sure that I truly had listened to her pleas. Ironically enough, I fell into a slumber after all. I can't tell you how much I wish I had not._

_I don't have the words to express everything I felt during those few minutes (for I am sure it was no longer than that) when I **did** sleep. It was no rest; the nightmares came and went, mixed with scrapes of memories I couldn't fully recognise. I believe I saw the orphanage; I think I heard Matthew, too._

_And then it was all you, here at Green Gables, at school, at Queens, at Redmond. I saw you come to Patty's Place and leave before I had a chance to even greet you. Every time you just appeared out of thin air, only to disappear as soon as I realised you were there at all._

_And then you left for good._

_Gil, I am so scared you will do it for real. I keep telling myself that you won't, that all I've heard is just another village gossip and that even if your state is as bad as they say it is, it still isn't enough to beat you down. But then the nightmares come and I just can't pretend any longer, so I just sit and cry, hugging my pillow and screaming into it, hoping against hope that I would not wake anyone else._

_I'm not even sure I'd care if I did any longer._

_All I know is that I don't want to fall asleep again, not until I know **you** are going to be alright. I am too terrified to dream; and I'm too weak to battle the nightmares that come instead._

_I don't want to see you go._

_I've watched you walk away so many times these past two years, Gil, and it pained me to do it every time. You're laughing again, or maybe just rolling your eyes at me, unable to believe someone as cold and blind as me could feel anything of the sort; but I did. But as horrible it was to live with nothing but your shadow by my side, the real you standing so far in the distance, it all pales in comparison to losing you now._

_I don't expect to find you at my door again, waiting to share adventures with me once more. I'm not hoping for forgiveness I do not deserve. I'm only asking you not to make my worst nightmare come true._

_I had to reconstruct my world without you in it once; I've never truly succeeded at the task, as Phil would gladly inform you._

_I don't want to try and do it again._

_Please don't make me._

_Yours faithfully,  
Anne_


	4. Third

**Third**

* * *

 

_Green Gables_  
_Avonlea_  
_Wednesday, July 29th  
_ _Twenty past four_

_Dear Gilbert_

_I'm sorry._

_I'm so very, terribly sorry._

_I'm sorry for the last letter being so awfully chaotic, with no real message hidden behind its lines. I'm sorry for prattling away my fears and revelations, when you obviously couldn't be less interested in any of them. I'm sorry for writing anything at all when I must be the last person whose letter you'd like to receive._

_I'm sorry I can't be there with you right now._

_I am being ridiculous again, of course. What meaning can my apology have if you're not going to hear it? And why should I care about bothering you with it, when I am so determined not to let you know about any of this, not only tonight, but at any other time?_

_But I can't help it, Gil. I wish so desperately that I could go to your house, **now** and tell you personally how true and sincere my apology is. How deeply sorry I am for causing you pain, for pushing you away instead of just being honest, and kind, and brave._

_Then again, how could I be honest with you then, when I've only just begun to be honest with myself?_

_I've been so blind, Gil. And now I feel it's too late._

_And yet, I can't excuse myself so easily. Blind or not, terrified or not, I should have tried to reach to you and mend whatever had broken. I couldn't have stopped you in the orchard, and I don't think I could have answered you differently than I did… But I'm still sorry for giving up on us afterwards._

_I'm sorry I didn't try to talk to you more when you visited at Patty's Place._

_I'm sorry I was too preoccupied with my own life to notice the unhealthy state you put yourself in._

_I'm sorry I refused to dance with you at the convocation ball._

_I'm sorry, I'm so inexplicably, painfully sorry for wasting so much time I could have spent with you. For breaking my slate over your head, for rejecting your apologies that followed. For leaving that sweet apple on my desk for someone else to find, for crushing the candy heart you had offered. For breaking the one you gave me so many years after that._

_I'm sorry for not making up at Barry's Pond when you had 'so unnecessarily rescued me'. For not being there for you at Queens and for doing just the same at Redmond after all._

_All because of this wretched, pathetic pride of mine._

_Remember how we used to laugh at it? First it was just you, teasing and mocking me at school, while I was so determined not to show I noticed you at all. 'Stop huffing, Miss Shirley, or you'll get short of breath!' 'Come on, look at your audience or they'll think you care about them as little as you care about me!' 'Oh, for Pete's sake, Anne, lower your head a little or you'll scratch the ceiling with that pretty nose of yours!'_

_Oh, how furious it made me to hear you speak to me like this! How dares he laugh at me, I thought! And **how** **dares he** compliment my nose when he does!_

_It changed a little after you had given up the school for me, of course. I was only grateful at first – but then I was surprised. Shouldn't I have been annoyed, seeing my greatest enemy make such a show of mercy, a sacrifice I had never asked for him to make? Shouldn't my pride have been touched upon with the deed that, however noble, might have seemed to be just another demonstration of your superiority?_

_And still, I felt nothing of the kind. I was grateful, and embarrassed, and… **hopeful** , somehow able to believe that if you were chivalrous enough to help me in this way, you would find it in your heart to forgive me my foolishness as well._

_I don't dare to think you could forgive me now. I suppose it's one more hope that is infinitely gone._

_I keep recalling the past, going back to the events from so many years ago. I'm still wondering: how was it possible that you did forgive me then? All I had done before it was fight you – I couldn't have expected that one short 'thank you' would be enough to fix it all._

_It wasn't, of course; we had five years to catch up with, and it certainly didn't just mean sweet talks and happy nonsense. It was all there of course; but Heaven help me if our arguments weren't the most heated ones in all of Avonlea's long history. But then, we would always sort it out, somehow. I was still proud, and we surely weren't any less stubborn, but I think we had learnt to appreciate what this mixed up comradeship was giving us._

_Is it strange that I still wish I had appreciated it more?_

_I am very tired, Gil. Perhaps I should not complain – you must be so much more exhausted yourself. They told me you tossed and turned in your bed, murmuring and screaming, calling for help, calling names of everyone you ever knew. I find myself wondering whether my name is there among them and how would you pronounce it if it was – would it be with anger? spite? regret?_

_Would you shout it with despise or do you care too little to mention it at all?_

_Whatever it was, I know I would deserve it. You have always been just, Gilbert – as much as I hated being judged in general, it was **your**  judgement I've always feared the most. Because favourable or not, it was nearly always true._

_It was reasonable. Just like you._

_So when they tell me about you now, can they really expect me to believe what they say? That your mumbling is incoherent or that your words make no sense? No, they can't be right about that. I've heard you say much nonsense over the years, but there was always something behind your words, something that would only make sense after a while. Sometimes it took me minutes to understand what you were at; at other times I needed days or weeks to fully realise what it was that you had meant. It became a game of sorts for me, listening to your seemingly ridiculous or provocative thoughts and trying to decipher the true meaning they carried with them._

_I'm sorry I'm not there to decipher them now._

_The storm is over and the morning has come. The first beams of sun are sneaking into my room; it's **dawn** and it's a beautiful one – or it would be, if only I could watch it in peace, sure that the day coming won't bring the most terrifying news._

_It's my last letter to you Gil – no, it can't be one. I will write you letters and hopefully, one day you will respond, and I promise you that I will prove to be the best of friends to you – if only you allow me to. Still, it is the last letter I write tonight; perhaps the last I'll write until I learn of your recovery._

_For the last time I beg you: please, don't walk away from us._

_Please, don't walk away from me._

Anne's hand trembled as she moved her pen over the lines, ready to sign her name under the letter – and froze, hesitant. How was she supposed to finish this one? Suddenly, none of the previous signatures seemed right. Of course, she was sincere – and surely, there was no one she'd rather be faithful to but _him_. And yet, neither of the expressions seemed to carry the affection that filled her wounded soul.

And she couldn't _write_ to him about her love.

With a sigh, she rested the pen against the creamy, coarse paper, and fighting the tears that had once again come to her eyes, she scribbled the only thing that seemed to fit.

‘ _Yours, Anne’_


	5. Finale - Part I

**Finale - Part I**

* * *

 

Despite the heartache and melancholy she was feeling, Anne wasted no time on unnecessary musings that morn. She had finished her last letter; she had signed her name underneath.

There was nothing more she could or should do.

With trembling hands, she folded the creamy paper neatly and reached out for the other two, safely hidden between the pages of her book. She felt tempted to go through the lines once more, as if willing to relive the tempest of the night – and shook her head at her own silliness. It wouldn't change a thing; it wouldn't help anyone.

She folded the sheets most decisively, and put them inside an envelope, and bent over it to write the address purely out of habit. She stopped, shocked. Why would she do that? Why would she put an address on a letter that was not to be sent?

She smiled a little piteously at her own inconsistency then and shook her red head again. It didn't _matter_. As far as common sense was concerned, none of these letters should have been written in the first place, and it was something she had realised since before she'd first sat down to work on them. And yet, she _had_ written them; she might have as well finished the job and addressed them properly.

Her hand shook a little more when she scribbled Gilbert's name, and as much as she tried, Anne couldn’t disregard the strange feeling that overcame her completely. There was something special about the little task, as if it was was the last string tying her to the solidness of this world, reminding her of the reality of it. It was thin, but it was strong – like a cobweb, beautiful and silky, and as magical as one. Her smile gained the warmth it had been missing when she thought of it – when she thought of _him._

Her heart still ached, and her vision was still blurry with tears. She wiped some of them away before carefully putting the now ready envelope on the right side of her desk, brushing her fingers against it gently.

_Just please, let him live._

She rose from her chair then and glanced at her bed longingly, feeling the exhaustion of the night finally getting to her with all its might; but she couldn't give in just yet. Not before she learned he was alright, that the horrible danger was now put behind him. She turned to her window again – that's where she would wait.

As she knelt by the sill and rested her forehead on it, she heard the first birds of the morn sing cheerfully, announcing yet another day to come. The sun kissed her hair and she sighed at the warmth of that kiss – and the strange, inexplicable sense of hope that washed over her as it did.

She didn't dare to hope just yet. But she was going to believe just the same.

With a silent prayer playing in her mind, she closed her eyes with faith and drew a deep breath.

A new day had come; the sunshine danced in it.

In the east gable, a broken girl fell asleep at last.

* * *

It was a few hours later when Anne woke up with a start, surprised to find herself propped against the hard window sill, with a sting of sharp ache pulsing in her neck. She needed a few moments to comprehend where she was and why she was there – when the realisation dawned on her, rendering her breathless, like it had the evening before.

_Gilbert is dying._

"He is _not_ ," she whispered in protest, clenching her fists and tightening her jaw as she inhaled deeply, attempting to bring herself to some sort of equilibrium. "He's ill, but he's _alive_. And while there's _life_ , there is _hope_."

The girl stood up with difficulty, leaning against the wall. She tried not to think too much of her shaking legs, of her knees that threatened to buckle under her weight any moment; she would only have felt weaker if she had. Her mind raced back to the events and discoveries of the previous night and she felt a little dizzy at the thought.

Gilbert was sick.

So sick that everyone but her seemed to believe he was in his grave already.

And she was in love with him.

Anne felt her lips quiver again and she swallowed, trying to fight the lump that immediately came to her throat. She didn't suppose she could go on like this for much longer, pretending to ignore the comments of others while in truth, each memory of them pierced her gentle, loving soul like a long, blunt blade – she needed know that Gilbert was alright.

Involuntarily, her gaze shifted on the desk by which she had spent so many hours of that horrifying night and after a moment of hesitation, she walked over to it. She wasn't sure why she did it; she was too tired to write anything more and besides, she had already decided that the three letters were the maximum she was not going to exceed. There was no point in rereading them, either, even if she had felt strong enough to do so.

All she was going to do was to look at the envelope one last time and then hide it in a less accessible place. She might even burn it after she learned Gilbert was well.

But the letter wasn't there.

Anne felt herself stiffen in shock, unable to find a reason for the sudden change. Had it fallen from the desk last night and she was too distraught to notice? She came closer and examined the floor around it, finding nothing. Had she put in a safer place then, like the book she'd first used for that paper? No, she flicked it over several times and all that feel from it was a rose she'd picked in the garden.

It couldn't just disappear. She _had_ written those letters, she hadn't just dreamt it all, so the small envelope must have been there somewhere – unless…

"Sweet Heaven," she stammered at last, pressing her white hand to her mouth.

They couldn't have _sent it._

She was out of the room and fleeing down the stairs before she knew it, for this one blissful moment forgetting about the real terror that still threatened her. She found herself in the spacious kitchen soon and looked around it frantically.

"Marilla?" she called out, her voice trembling. "Marilla, are you at home?"

"Marilla's out in the garden," came Dora's elegant answer as the girl entered from the parlour. "She's cutting the roses – Anne, are you alright? You look awful pale!"

Anne sank on the bench closest to her, leaning on one of her arms for support. Her dizziness only seemed to increase.

"I will be fine, darling," she answered eventually, looking up at the girl and mustering the weakest of smiles. "But I need to know – the letters – the post -"

"Anne, you need to drink!" Dora exclaimed, grasping the nearest glass and filling it with water with the perfectly ladylike practicality her young nature had always shown. "Please, here – I'll go get Marilla -"

Anne interrupted her, raising her hand. "There is no need for that, dear. I just – pray tell me, have you been to my room today?"

Dora looked a little startled at that.

"I… I have," she admitted cautiously. "Marilla asked me to check on you, Anne – she was so worried – and I saw you were sleeping by the sill but I didn't know if I should wake you so I just took the lamp, and the letter and left…"

"The letter?" Anne asked breathlessly, praying that her nervousness would not show and worry the already troubled Dora any further.

Her little companion nodded in confirmation. "You… you left it on the right side of the desk. You always did it when you wanted me to take the letters for sending, so I thought that -"

"That this one was meant to be sent, too."

Dora nodded again before swallowing and shifting uncomfortably in her place, her bright eyes of a child fixed on the other girl expectantly.

Even as she massaged her pulsating temples, Anne could not miss the look Dora had given her, and she certainly couldn't ignore it after she had. She sighed, and sent her what hopefully was a more sincere smile.

"It's alright, my dear, don't worry," she said softly, gesturing at the girl to sit next to her and embracing her lovingly when she did. "It's a little misunderstanding – the letter just wasn't… finished, that's all. But you're right, I should have remembered not to put it on this particular place on the desk. And I should thank you for thinking of me – it was a kind thing to do."

"You – won't have any trouble because of it, will you, Anne?" Dora asked, clearly afraid of the consequences her actions could cause.

Anne shook her head again and kissed the girls hair fondly. "I don't think so. It may get a bit awkward I suppose, but this is as bad as it could be. I'll be fine."

Dora nodded in acknowledgement and bit her lower lip, pensive. Anne pulled a little and smiled again.

"What is it, dear? If you want to ask me something, just do it."

"I – I don't think I should," Dora stammered in embarrassment, her cheeks pink from it. "But Anne, I don't understand – _why_ would you write to Gilbert right now?"

At this Anne closed her eyes, at first unable to respond to the pain this simple question had brought. It was as if someone had taken her aching, maiden heart in their hands and squeezed it with all their might – and again, there was no one but herself she could blame for the misery she felt. She certainly couldn't blame Dora for it.

She opened her eyes after a moment and realised that the girl was still waiting for an answer from her.

"Because I still believe he'll make it," she said quietly after a while. "I know what everyone else thinks about it, but I can't give up on him so easily."

"So you think he'll read your letter after all?"

Anne felt her throat tighten again but fought it bravely, forcing just another, very sad smile. "I do. Not now of course, as he must be so weak at this time – but when he recovers… It will be waiting there for him."

Whatever Dora thought of this confession, she did not let it show on her round, a little too serious face.

"Mrs Lynde says the Blythes were always strong people," she recalled eventually. "And she knows them longer than any of us, so she must be right. I'd rather listen to her than Davy, to be sure."

"Darling, Davy is just a boy who heard too much from his friends. But I'm not surprised that he listens to them more eagerly than he does to Mrs Lynde. It's not exactly wise of him, but it is perfectly understandable, you know."

"Well, I suppose he'll know better now," Dora summed up unexpectedly, straightening up with dignity. "He went to the Blythes after all, I'm sure they'll tell him that Milty Boulter was wrong all along."

At this Anne jumped to her feet, all of her composure gone. Her face was pale again and her hands trembled as she pressed them to her chest, shocking poor Dora in an utterly unexpected way.

"Why would he go there?" was all she managed to stammer in response to Dora's astonished glare.

Still recovering from the sudden change, Dora blinked. "To deliver your letter, of course! He said he wanted to play with the boys near the Blythe farm and said he would get it to them – he said it would be an awful waste of money to send a letter by post to someone who lived so close to us,"

"Oh, goodness," Anne panted in response, stalking towards the door; she felt Dora's stare still burning on her back and turned to answer her. "Don't worry about me, dear. Stay here or go to Marilla – I just need… some air…"

And she left, closing the heavy door behind her with a dull thud, resting her back against it as soon as she did. As she recalled that moment later, it was a miracle she didn't fall on the wooden floor instead.

"Davy went to the Blythes," she breathed, feeling her heart thud against her chest with the violence she hadn't felt since the previous night. "He'll be there, even if they don't let him in or take the letter from him – he'll _know_ how Gilbert is. He'll know if… if…"

Too frightened to finish the thought, Anne pushed herself away from the door and slowly stumbled toward the main gate, knowing that it was there where Davy would most probably arrive. She reached her destination soon; all she could do now was wait.

She couldn't tell how long it had been before the boy she had awaited came to where she stood. It might have been seconds or hours for her; she would not know. She spent the time gazing longingly at the Lovers' Lane, expecting to see Davy coming from there and yet not seeing anything of the present world at all – her mind too occupied with too many memories of the happy days that now seemed to have been gone for good. _This_ was the lane where they had first strolled together; this was the path they'd taken so many times since then! Could it be that they would never walk that path again?

Anne was raised from her meditation by a joyful whistling coming from the road and turned abruptly to see no other but Davy, walking briskly towards their home. He looked surprised to see her then but Anne gave him no time to question her – too great was her need to find the truth to allow him that.

"Davy, dear, have you really been to the Blythe farm today?"

The boy gave her a curious glance, but confirmed. "Aye. It's awful busy up there, everyone is coming and leaving and they have no time for little boys. I think it's terribly unfair, don't you, Anne?"

The girl in front of him wavered at the news, the familiar stinging in her eyes making itself known again.

"So you didn't get to talk with anyone there?" she asked, disappointed.

Davy's eyes twinkled. "Oh no, I did. Mr Blythe saw me before the house and told me to come inside, and then I saw Mrs Blythe, too. I thought I should give your letter to Mrs Blythe because she is a woman like you, but she was just crying there, so Mr Blythe took it from me after all."

Anne's voice was hollow. "Mrs Blythe was crying?"

"An awful lot, really. I thought something very bad must have happened to Gilbert so I told her I was sorry -" at this Anne let out a painful groan and leaned against the fence, much to Davy's astonishment; he continued however, "and that was when Mr Blythe took the letter from me. He said I shouldn't worry too much about the crying and that Mrs Blythe is just a little too happy and reve – rele – _relieved_ and that's why she keeps doing it. But Anne, why would anyone cry if they were happy? I want to know."

At this point Anne was too preoccupied with her own set of happy tears to answer any of the questions the curious boy might have asked her. Instead, she just stepped closer, gathering him in her arms, holding him in the tightest embrace she had ever given to anyone. She was sobbing now, but her mouth was curved into the most beautiful smile as she kissed her herald of good news on the very top of his head.

Davy muttered something under his breath, but again, Anne was too drunk with her sudden joy to pay much regard to his complaints. She pulled away after a moment and for the first time since her time at Echo Lodge, she _laughed._

The boy before her was staring at her, wide-eyed.

"I really don't understand girls," he announced. "Say Anne, are you happy now, too?"

"Yes, Davy, dearest," she confirmed eagerly, breaking into a smile again. "Nothing you could say could make me more so."

"Well, I could tell you that Gilbert had a _twist_ last night and that's how they know he's going to be better now," Davy said, a little offended at the apparent lack of belief. "But what is a twist, Anne? I want to know."

Anne ran her hand through his unruly locks and kissed them again. "I dare say you mean a _turn_ , dear. And it means that everything is going to be well now. It _really_ is."

Davy seemed to ease a little and finally, he smiled as well.

"So Gilbert won't die after all?" he asked with all his child-like innocence.

"No, Davy. He won't."

She ushered the boy inside the house, telling him she'd join them soon; but for now, she just needed a minute or two for herself.

She did not know what the future held – what bends in the road she would have to cross yet. However, whatever awaited her in this world, she now felt she could face it all.

Because now she knew Gilbert Blythe would be a part of that world, too.

"Weeping may endure for a night but joy cometh in the morning," she mused quietly to herself as she walked towards her most beloved home, the soft breeze playing with her auburn locks and the hymn of joy ringing in her heart.

_'God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world,’_

* * *

It had been several days since Gilbert's 'twist' and the recovery he was making was most satisfactory for all. It wasn't particularly unusual nor fast - but it was steady, and that was more than anyone had hoped for.

That day he was sitting in his bed, propped against his pillows, for the first time allowed to read the little correspondence he had got. There were letters from Redmond, from both his fellow students and the professors he knew best; there was an official letter from the Cooper's Prize Committee as well as the paper from the board of Redmond Medical School; a few notes from friends at which he hadn't yet had the chance to look.

And then, there was a letter from Anne.

Several times had his gaze wondered towards the envelope and several times Gilbert made himself look away from it. He couldn't know what was in it, he couldn't guess _why_ she would write to him – except for the deep fear rooted inside him, whispering that it was no friendly letter he would find in there.

The serious, handsome face of Roy Gardner flashed before his eyes and he winced, remembering all the times he'd been forced to look at it for real.

No, if that envelope carried an announcement of any kind, he was much better off without it.

He flipped the letters already splattered on his lap and frowned, searching for something that could take his attention away from the painful thoughts of the past. He could have settled for some of the official letters, of course; but somehow, even that seemed too much for him. To think about his studies, about his future when _she_ was no longer a part of it – no, he needed much more than a few short days to be able to think of that again.

He saw a small, pastel pink envelope coming under one of the bigger ones and took it, immediately recognising Phil's fine, though careless handwriting. His heart ached again – but this time, he decided to disregard it.

He could not let the memories of Anne haunt him for the rest of his life like this.

So he opened the envelope, and read the letter inside, smiling wistfully at the enthusiasm with which Phil described all the more eventful parts of her wedding. He was happy for her; she was a sweet girl, and much cleverer than she often gave herself credit for – and ever since meeting 'her dear Jo' Gilbert had been convinced the pair was simply meant to be.

Ignoring the melancholic note that still rang in his heart, he went on with his reading – and stopped.

‘ _For the sake of our friendship, please, try again.’_

He stared at the paper for a few long minutes, wondering whether what he saw could indeed be true – but it had to be. No matter how much of a tease Phil was, she would never have consciously hurt him, and she certainly wouldn't have tried to prank him like that.

_Try again._

In one swift move he threw the letter away and reached out for the one he'd been trying to forget for so many hours now.

No matter what secrets the creamy, coarse envelope held, he could not ignore them any longer.


	6. Finale - Part II

**Finale – Part II**

* * *

It had been nine days since Anne's dreadful night of revelation, as well as the most welcome morning that followed it, and still, Anne seemed no closer to regaining her peace than she had been on that horrid eve. She was not unhappy, of course – as scarce as the information of Gilbert's health was, it was undoubtedly positive, no matter from what source it came from – and yet, none of this could bring serenity to the young girl's troubled mind.

She tried, most unsuccessfully, to busy herself with the usual chores, sweeping floors and washing clothes with the zest unknown to mankind – which obviously resulted in her creating even more mess, if only by knocking the washtub down twice and spreading the dirty water all across the little yard, together with the petticoats that were drenched inside it. She would have attempted using her drive in the kitchen, too – if Marilla hadn't banned her from the room after the first day, declaring that she had no need for burned biscuits and flour-less cakes any more that she usually did.

Anne protested firmly then, claiming that the days of her mistakes had been long behind her – and stopped as Marilla raised her hand and waved the handkerchief she had starched just this morning.

"Well, I suppose I am capable of making the same mistake twice, after all," Anne admitted sheepishly, covering her embarrassment with a little smile.

Marilla shook her head at her, but said nothing.

"If only all mistakes were so easily fixed as starched handkerchiefs," the girl muttered to herself presently, as she rested her elbows against the big kitchen table and sighed, exhausted.

She had done so much during these past few days and yet, nothing could tire her enough to make her forget about her main, undying worry. She craved news – but she could ask for none. All she _could_ do was stay at home and wait, relying on the little information Mrs Lynde and Davy brought home.

It was _infuriating_.

"For goodness sake, Anne, stop sighing," the matron in question scolded her as she entered the room, making the girl wince in surprise. "He's going to be alright."

"I know he is," Anne agreed meekly. "But Mrs Lynde, would you not be perturbed if your friend had found themselves in such a state? Would you not want to know how they were doing, even after the crisis had passed?"

"Well, I for once never had a 'friend' of this kind," Mrs Rachel answered a little derisively. "Oh, don't look at me like that, child, my impertinence is something you should be well accustomed with by now. And I know that you'd care about any of your friends like that."

Anne sighed again, oblivious to the roll of the eyes Mrs Rachel gave her. "And yet, he is the only one that's unwell – and the only one that I can't visit or ask about. I know I'd be calmer if only I could inquire about him myself."

"Unless you want to announce some secret engagement of yours, then no, you can't do that. But on the bright side, I've heard they'd let Gilbert out of bed a few days ago and are about to allow him outside any moment, if only for a short time and around the farm. Either way, it may be that you'll be able to ask him about everything yourself, soon."

"If only he wanted to talk to me at all," Anne whispered wistfully in response, in a voice so low that Mrs Lynde could not possibly have heard it. The older woman made no further inquiries, and only clicked her tongue with the slightest air of impatience.

"Now, now, enough of this," she said decisively. "I know you want to know more than I can tell, but it is not to be helped. And I have some baking to do – so if Marilla hadn't changed her mind about letting you around the oven, I suggest you go outside and read. Really, Anne – I never thought I'd live to see the day when I have to pressure you to do that."

To that Anne nodded a little guiltily and rose from her seat, setting off towards the door, ready to sit down again in Matthew's old rocking chair that still stood in the porch. She knew her book would be waiting for her there – there was no other place she could bring herself to read these days, if she could bring herself to it at all.

It had become a habit of sorts, however, with Marilla and Rachel constantly driving her out of the house, insisting on her taking as much of the fresh countryside air as she could. The days were indeed beautiful; and there certainly wasn't a spot in which Anne felt more confident or secure than the chair she was once again occupying now.

Still, she forgot her book as soon as she'd opened it.

"Mrs Lynde is right, this is absurd," she mused as she closed her eyes, discontent reflecting on her pale, weary face. "I've spent the past week and a half in a state of this awful restlessness, even though I _know_ it won't do anyone any good. He won't get better and neither will I – and yet, how can I pretend I don't care about him now?"

She drew in a deep breath and let it out; she repeated the action more than once after that. Her blood was still running fast, just like it did every time she thought of her dear friend, not to mention the times when she recalled the horror she'd felt when she had first learnt about his state.

Of course, he was better now.

Of course, she could not calm down about it until she met him in person.

Another sigh escaped her mouth as her mind wandered towards the letters she had written. Had Davy really managed to deliver them? And even if, could Mr and Mrs Blythe have thought it proper to pass the thick envelope to their son, knowing how badly Anne herself had hurt him?

And if they had – what was Gilbert's reaction to it?

_Everything but joy, that's what_ , she answered her own question with a frown, no longer caring to voice her thoughts; there was no one there to listen, anyway. _He must have thought I was insane, writing letters to a dying man whom I had ignored for the previous two years, when he couldn't have read them, even if he had wanted to. He must have thought me arrogant and tactless, stupid and bold – and I can't even blame him for thinking any of it. He has every right in the world to do so._

"You are an idiot, Anne Shirley," she said out loud with exasperation. "An utter, hopeless, miserable idiot."

"If you think that's true, then you really might be one."

She almost fell from her chair at the sound of the voice that had so unexpectedly answered her, the instinctive grasp of the arms being the only thing that had prevented the accident. Her eyes were wide with disbelief; her hand had gone up to her mouth to suppress the shriek that would have escaped it otherwise.

He couldn't have been there.

And yet, he was, leaning nonchalantly against the porch pole, grinning down at her most dashingly, as if he hadn't fought death itself just mere days ago. Anne eyed him from top to toe, but couldn't force herself to say a word.

Gilbert sighed in mock fatigue. "Yes, Anne, I am very happy to meet you, too. It's wonderful to see you this enthusiastic."

Anne opened her mouth to protest, but said nothing still, fearing that her voice would fail her and crack in the most inappropriate moment.

"Gilbert Blythe, what on _earth_ are you doing here?" was all she managed to gasp eventually.

The young man in front her only shrugged, giving her one of those lopsided smiles she had got to know so well over the years. Anne frowned at his carelessness – apparently, that was enough to make Gilbert speak.

"I thought it was time I made up for all these weeks spent in my room and go outside for once," he said casually. "I promise you, Anne, even you couldn't imagine how much I missed the sight."

"Gil, you should be resting," she answered him with emphasis, putting her book away and rising to her feet so she could face him properly; the discontented scowl did not leave her face. "You've barely just beaten a terrible disease and you surely couldn't have made a full recovery yet -"

"And you seem to know a great deal about my state, don't you?"

"Gilbert Blythe!"

" _Anne Shirley_ ," Gilbert protested resolutely. "First, stop using my full name like this – no matter how serious you think my illness was, I haven't forgotten it yet, so you really don't need to remind me of it every other minute. And second, what would be the point of me getting well if I lost my sanity immediately after? And trust me, I _was_."

However logical his argumentation might have appeared, Anne was not to be persuaded this easily.

" _Unbelievable_ ," she muttered, pressing her fingers to her temples and shaking her head disapprovingly; she heard Gilbert chuckle softly at her expression and glared at him scornfully. "This isn't funny, Gil! Everyone was so scared you that wouldn't break that fever, that we would never see you again, that I would never get to tell you..." she stopped abruptly, realising how close she had come to blurting out her most treasured secret in what wasn't even a proper talk. She crossed her arms, hugging herself tightly and looked away, clenching her jaw in a determined grimace. "It's not fair of you to throw all of it away so carelessly."

Resolved not to look at him until he admitted his mistake, Anne missed the change that had reflected on Gilbert's face as soon as she had started talking. She didn't see the concern that had appeared on his countenance immediately after, nor how his look had softened at the very sound of her tone; she didn't see him as he came near her.

"Anne, you can't possibly think that's what I'm doing," he opposed, gently but strongly. "I know how lucky I was to survive the typhoid, and believe me, I would never be so reckless as to hazard my health again. But that's not what I'm doing here at all – if anything, I'm speeding my recovery by a well thought-of exercise plan."

Anne's mouth formed into a tight line at this.

"By walking alone in the heat, ignoring every bit of common sense that might be left in you?" she asked bitterly a moment later.

Gilbert allowed himself a small smile. "By recalling every other case of my being unwell and remembering how fresh air and long walks have always proved to be the best cure for me. I can't help it, Anne; it simply works."

Anne shook her head again and swallowed, hoping she would somehow manage to hold back the tears that were once again threatening to come to her eyes. She lowered her head a little as she asked, "Is that what the future Doctor Blythe would say?"

"The future Doctor Blythe is nothing but a blurry, uncertain vision of mine and as such, he has nothing to say about how I should live my life for the next three years at least. And until he does, I'm going to happily enjoy the freedom of listening to my old farm-boy _common sense_."

He fell silent for a moment then, as if waiting for the girl in front of him to turn back and face him again on her own account. He wasn't surprised when she didn't; he simply took another step and clasped her arms lightly, turning her towards him despite the stubbornness with which she still avoided his gaze.

He tilted his head and gave her another warm smile. "Come on, Anne. I didn't come here to argue with you."

This made her look at him at last, even though once again, she found it difficult to respond to his words with anything but a pained, longing gaze. She felt her cheeks flush slightly as she realised how close he was standing and instinctively, she took a step back, freeing herself from his lose grasp. She wasn't sure whether what she saw in Gilbert's eyes was hurt or disappointment or both – or whether it was just a trick of a light, helped greatly by her overly eager imagination and the hopes of what she knew couldn't be true.

Still, she couldn't just stay dumb when he had so willingly offered himself to her – even if it was nothing but friendship he wanted to give. He had come to _her_ – and something was telling her that there was much more to it than the obvious proximity of the two households.

He had come to Green Gables for a reason.

"What did you come here for, then?" she asked eventually, looking up at him again.

However tense, Gilbert managed to muster another warm, friendly smile. "Well, I _was_ serious about taking up my walks again – and hopefully longer ones that the trip to your home. I guess I was hoping you’d agree to join me on one of these today."

Anne's eyes widened in astonishment once more and instinctively, she took another step back – or she would have, if she hadn't met the old chair with her calves. She wavered a little and saw – sensed – Gilbert hastily step closer to assist her, catching her by the elbow and steadying her before she could even comprehend what had happened to her. She found herself blushing again at his touch as a delightful _thrill_ went down her spine at his repeated closeness; and only the many years of training at hiding her real feelings from everyone including herself saved her from losing her composure completely.

"I'm fine," she stuttered eventually, looking at everything but his face. "I just stumbled, I didn't hurt myself and I'm certainly not about to faint – really, Gil, I mean it – there's no need for you securing me like this."

Even though she did her best to sound lightly, she knew that Gilbert saw no humour in her words as soon as she had uttered them. His face grew serious again; he let go of her arm and stepped away as she'd asked – as she had barely suggested, really. Anne felt another pang in her heart at his pained expression and suddenly, she realised there was only one thing left for her to do.

She reached out for him herself.

"Gilbert, wait," she said softly, despite the tightness in her throat and the anxiety that was still possessing her to a point; she held out her hand and brushed her fingers against his sleeve, still not entirely sure whether she should clasp them around it. "I was just surprised, that's all – I didn't think you could seriously consider going anywhere further than here, not so soon after… After they let you out for the first time. And say what you will, I'm still not convinced that you should."

Gilbert's eyes flickered from his arm to her face, and for a second, he did nothing but stared at her questioningly. Anne answered him with a smile, a slight raise of her brow – and a withdrawal of the hand that should by no means rest on his arm any longer.

"Well, I did a fair share of walking around the farm these past few days, if that's of any meaning to you" he argued at last, with a weak attempt at a grin of his own. "My parents wouldn't hear of me strolling all the way down here until they were sure I wouldn't collapse somewhere down the lane. As you see, however, I didn't; and I didn't mean any of our old long rambles, either. So I ask again, Anne: will you come with me?"

Anne's eyes shone with the last flash of insecurity as she pondered over his question, and she could only answer him with her own, "Are you sure it won't do you harm?"

"I am," Gilbert's respond was immediate and solemn – as was his countenance, until the familiar sparkle reappeared in his eyes and he leaned towards her a little, with the mischievous grin playing on his lips. "And you should probably know that I intend to take that walk regardless of the answer you deign me with, Queen Anne – so your refusal will not protect me from said harm. If anything, it will increase the risk of it, as there will be no one to help me if I _do_ feel worse."

At this, Anne could only laugh, "Oh, now that's blackmail, Mr Blythe! Although I am hardly the person to carry you home if you _do_ collapse, aren't I?"

"Well, you still could call for help if the need be," Gilbert insisted and smiled fondly at her, before adding, "And seriously, Anne, I am not going to faint out there, I can promise you this much. And it would mean a lot to me if you agreed to accompany me, if only you have the time – and if you're willing to do so once more. What do you say?"

Anne opened her mouth to answer, probably bringing up another wise argument of hers – and then, quite involuntarily, she met his gaze. It was so honest, so pleading, so... so very _Gilbert_ that she immediately understood that she could not say no to his request this time.

Frankly, she didn't want to say no to any of the request he might give ever again.

So she smiled, and inhaled and shook her head with a chuckle.

"Just give me a minute to let Marilla know, will you?"

"All the minutes in the world, if only you need them, Anne," Gilbert agreed readily, some of his seriousness returning, even though this time it was evenly mixed with the peacefulness and the warmth his voice had gained. "Take your time and don't worry; I'll wait as long as you need me to. I am, after all, a pathologically patient man."

Something in his tone, something new and confusing and _wonderful_ made Anne's heart flutter in her chest again; something that made his final little joke sound like no joke at all. And yet, she pushed that feeling away, nodding courtly and turning on her heel, determined not to give in to the wave of hopefulness that had overcome her so suddenly.

She would not try to find hidden meanings where they might not be. She would not allow her wild imagination to colour the little pieces that could have had no meaning at all.

She would not allow herself to hope.

Not yet, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, guys!


	7. Finale - The Last One

**Finale – The Last One**

Anne Shirley had always been quick on her feet and this time was no different. Hardly had Gilbert had the time to miss her when she was back from the house, a ready smile on her face and a full basket swinging in her hands as she approached him, eager to set off on the journey that could be of no meaning at all – or the one that could change everything that was to be changed.

Gilbert raised his brow at her.

"Anne, I thought I made myself clear when I said I only planned on a little walk around the place," he said with emphasis, although the corners of his mouth were twitching. "There is no need to bring a feast with us."

The girl in front of him lifted her chin with an air of determination to it and answered resolutely, "You are still weak, and if nothing else, you need to drink regularly after a fever like this. And it's certainly not a feast – a sandwich or two, some apple tart to accompany it... None of them of my making, of course, as I'm still not allowed to work in the kitchen, but then I suppose that's only a good thing."

"I can smell a good story coming with this, and I honestly can't wait to hear it. Still, Anne, I can't see how any of this is for drinking."

"It's not," she answered impatiently with a roll of her eyes. "Marilla's raspberry cordial is, something I would have told you if you had let me finish a thought for once."

"I'm sorry, are you trying to inebriate me?"

"Good grief, Gil!" Anne called out towards the sky, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the laughter her friend let out at her reaction and the butterflies that seemed to flutter in her stomach at the very sound of it. "You're lucky you're still recovering, or so help me -"

"Alright, alright," he interrupted her with another small laugh as he approached her, reaching out for the basket she held. "Just give it to me, and we can be on our way in a second."

Anne stepped back for what seemed like the dozenth time that day, although fortunately, just this once, it caused nothing but confusion on Gilbert's part. His eyebrows went up again as he looked at his companion; then he frowned again, having comprehended what her action meant.

"You aren't seriously thinking that I'm going to allow you to carry it, are you?" he inquired with a gentle smirk.

It was obvious Anne had had her retort long planned and practised when she answered, "I'm not exactly asking for your permission, Mr. Blythe. It's a small burden, and unlike some people I know, I am also in a perfect health and thus entirely capable of carrying it myself."

"For Heaven's sake, I am not an invalid, Anne!"

"And neither am I, so if you’d be so kind, stop doing so much ado about nothing and let me do what I choose for the best. I am quite determined, you know; so you can either agree to my terms or go on that ramble of yours on your own."

"And you speak of losing control," Gilbert muttered under his breath, loud enough for her to hear him but not enough for her to distinguish the words. Out loud he said, "You do realise _this_ is blackmail, don't you?"

Anne couldn't help but smile at his words. "Well, I _did_ learn from the best."

Their bickering did not last much longer after that, and now they were both strolling through the Haunted Woods, arm in arm, as they had used to do so often – and yet, both feeling different than ever before. Their talk was light, touching upon topics no more serious than the well-being of their families and friends, little Avonlea gossip and Gilbert's recovery; their hearts burdened with anticipation and uncertainty, of fear of having their newly awakening dreams shattered again.

They could both sense the dissonance of the case – and still, none of them felt ready to address the matter just yet.

As Anne glanced up at her friend, she realised that nothing could reflect that discord better than Gilbert's outer looks. He was wearing a casual, grey suit, the kind he'd used to wear when they had both taught at school: the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, the matching jacket left somewhere back on the Blythe farm, making him look every inch like the comrade she had made her peace with so many years ago. She could swear that even the cap on his head was of the very same fashion as the one she had once given him, and yet, somehow, he looked nothing like his old self at all.

He looked older, for sure. He must have, after so many years of work and hardship, some of which she was personally responsible for. The typhoid had taken its toll on him too, perhaps even more so than anything that had happened to him during the time that had preceded it – or had she simply been too blind and selfish to notice it before? Anne didn't know.

She couldn't know.

She looked up at Gilbert again and saw him frown a little, his gaze fixed steadily on the path before them. One of his hands was buried in his pocket, while he used the other for gesturing, emphasising what he was currently rambling about. He was talking about Jane's upcoming wedding, Anne believed, something about him not being able to forgive Jane for leaving him out of the invitation list. Again, his voice was light and cheerful; again, Anne couldn't tell how sincere his cheerfulness was.

For the first time in her life, she felt as if their long established roles had reversed – him, talking animatedly about everything and nothing at all, resolved not to meet her eyes unless the conversation truly demanded it; and her, giving him furtive, insecure looks, trying to guess how he really felt and what did he think of having her by his side like this.

If this was how he had felt throughout all these years...

She realised he'd stopped talking and raised her eyes on him once more, half-expecting him to mock her about not being attentive enough towards his speeches. To her surprise, she found him gazing down at her this time – and gazing seriously and hesitantly, as if he was preparing himself to speak up again, but not quite sure whether he should altogether.

Despite the tightening in her chest, Anne gathered her strength and mustered a small smile, opening her mouth to say something – anything – to ease his mind; but then he turned away from her, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

"I got your letters," was all he cared to say.

He still wasn't looking at her; however, his simple words were enough to make the already distraught Anne catch her breath. They weren't a surprise – should not have been one – but still, she found herself completely dumbfounded by that most obvious announcement, unable to do anything but stare at the hem of her dress and blush uncontrollably to her further dismay.

Oh, how foolish she felt right now!

But then something else caught her attention, something she had missed in the first moment of shock. Gilbert talked about _letters_ – and Anne did not need Redmond's High Honours in English to realise the meaning of the plural form he'd used.

"You've read them?" she asked shyly, still not able to raise her eyes at him and risk meeting his, even when she felt he was no more willing to look at her at the time. It took him another moment to answer, a moment during which Anne could think of nothing else but the sudden pounding of her heart, wondering whether he was able to hear it as clearly as she did.

"I have," Gilbert answered her then, finally gathering enough courage to shift his gaze to her, a change she could feel as distinctively as if he had taken her hand in his. "But Anne, I don't – I can't – I'm so _confused._ "

She felt the heat come up to her cheeks as she blushed in embarrassment again, remembering not only the impropriety of the correspondence but also the very state she was in while writing it. She had put so much thought into the former that she had forgotten the results the latter had caused – how obscure was her writing and how little meaning it must have carried for him.

Of course he was confused; of course he couldn't understand.

Why oh why had she written those letters in the first place?

"You shouldn't pay any mind to those, Gil." She tried to explain by answering the very question she had just asked herself. "I was so scared that night – I had only just come back from Echo's Lodge when I learned about your disease, and that was when it was at its worst. They told me you were dying -" her voice trembled a little at the memory, and she needed to inhale deeply before she was able to continue at all, still incapable of as much as glancing at the man by her side. "They told me it was certain and that there was no hope – Mrs Lynde tried to soften the blow by saying otherwise, but I knew she did not believe it any more than I did, and I couldn't just sit and do nothing. I cried, and I prayed, but after a while, even that seemed too little... So I settled for the only thing I hadn't tried and wrote those letters to you. I knew I was being ridiculous – I've known it all along, and I am admitting it now. But I had to do _something_. It was the only way for me not to lose my mind that night."

She somehow managed to force herself to glance up at him then, only to be met with the look of further confusion on his part. Anne sighed painfully and looked away once more.

"I know it makes little sense to you, with all of my wickedness that you have got to witness first-hand, but I really was scared that night. I was _frightened_ ," she continued a little more quietly, yet with the same stubborn determination that had been as much a part of her as her hateful red hair and the imagination she could never truly control. She saw Gilbert open his mouth to protest, but did not give him the chance to speak. "And I know that my writing was anything but clear, but that's only proof of how I really felt – and since I didn't think you'd ever read them, I cared for nothing but my own need to get those fears out of myself."

"But that's exactly what I mean," Gilbert opposed then, staring at her expectantly. "Can't you understand? I don't mind your ramblings, your lack of plan or wording; I don't mind anything these letters do or do not touch upon. Except -"

"Except what?"

"Except that they weren't meant for me."

Anne came to a halt, astonished by his confession, not quite able to comprehend what he had meant by a statement of this sort. He stopped right after and turned to face her properly for the first time since they'd left the Green Gables porch.

Somehow, the scene had seemed like a lifetime ago.

"What are you talking about?" was all Anne managed to stammer eventually, immediately feeling ashamed for asking a question so foolish.

"You know perfectly well what I'm talking about." Gilbert's voice was firm, but somehow, it lacked the hint of irritation she'd so easily come to expect. "You started your first letter from explaining how you were not going to send that letter to my house; you kept bringing it up afterwards, whenever the occasion arose. You called yourself ridiculous then and you are doing it now, and yet, you still wrote; all I'm trying to do is understand _why_."

"Gilbert, please, I know it sounds insane -"

"No, Anne, it doesn't. There's nothing wrong or strange about not knowing how to handle your own thoughts nor with putting them on the paper in an attempt to get a hold of them – I've done it myself more times than I could count, and I could name half a dozen people of whom I know doing the same. And I don't mind you choosing this form for it. If you really cared enough to spend a night writing those letters instead of resting as you should have -"

"Of course I did!" Anne cried out, amazed.

"If you did, I can only feel grateful for having a friend like this," Gilbert finished with a slightly strained voice, clearly doing his best not to give in to the emotions that were starting to overcome him. "But even then, it by no means explains why I should ever receive that envelope. So why did you send it?"

Anne felt another wave of guilt wash over her at his question, as she realised it meant yet another confession made on her part. All of a sudden, she felt exhausted – exhausted and small, smaller than she had felt on that day by the pond, when she had so stupidly refused to make amends with him, smaller than when she had refused him so cruelly in the orchard so many years after. She turned away and stepped aside, leaning on a tree nearest to her, and she sighed again in a resigned manner. There was no way around this, no answer other than the only truth she could offer him, and yet, it was still so difficult to give voice to that truth.

In the corner of her eye she saw a clearing in the forest, looming only a few yards from where they stood and immediately recognised it as the little sacred spot Gilbert had once shown her. It was there where he had taken her when she'd felt so insecure about leaving; it was there where he had reminded her that staying true to one's heart and dreams was more important than whatever others could say on the matter.

It was where their apple tree grew, 'the brave little thing' that stood and flourished against all odds, indifferent to the laws by which it should have been long gone.

There wasn't a place that could give her more of the courage she needed.

"I didn't send it," she replied eventually, looking up at him and meeting with his surprised glare. She mustered a weak smile and continued her explanation, "I finished writing the last letter shortly before dawn. I signed and folded it, and then I put it in the envelope with the other two and addressed it. I can't tell you why I did it, Gil, but for some reason, it felt important at the time. One way or another, I left it on my desk before falling asleep again, not for once thinking that anyone would enter my room without me noticing it. Dora did, however; and following out an old practice, she assumed that I had left the letter in that particular spot intending to have it sent later."

Gilbert nodded absently, although Anne could not pretend she did not see the sadness that reflected in all of his features at her words.

He took a deep breath and asked, "So you really didn't want me to read them?"

"No, Gil," she answered him softly. "I didn't intend to let you do it; it doesn't mean I didn't want you to."

She was met with another confused look of his and smiled a little more widely at him, praying inwardly that her newfound bravery would not go away before she carried out the task that had been laid before her. She had acted like a coward too many times in her life; she was not going to repeat that mistake today.

She could not, for both of their sakes.

As her flustered companion showed no intentions of responding to her words, she decided to resume her walk, hoping that reaching the clearing they had known and cherished so much would help him regain some of his spirits in the same way it had her. Gilbert, however, did not follow her immediately, nor did he react to her actions in any other way – not until she had crossed the edge of the line of the trees and stepped into the sun she'd been yearning for.

"You thought _I_ didn't want to read them!" he called out after her then, with a strange mixture of hurt and disbelief ringing in his voice, making her stop in her tracks once more. "You thought I didn't care enough to want that, that 'I wouldn't pay any regard to the lines, even if you had delivered the envelope to my hands'. But why, Anne? Why – _how_ could you ever assume such a thing when you know how much I have always cared?"

It was Anne's turn to look at him with astonishment not unequal to his own.

"How could I not?" she asked, bewildered. "We had hardly talked at all before you fell ill. The last time we did, you asked me for a dance and all I did was huff at you and refuse for no reason at all. I had hurt you so much in the past, and I kept doing so, because I was too selfish to realise or admit how awful I was. I called myself your friend, Gil. I felt proud of you for winning the Cooper – and yet, I didn't even notice how greatly it affected your health! Once or twice I thought of how your mother would react to me daring to write to you, and I couldn't help but think that your reaction would have been just as stern as hers – and what's more, it would have been the only sensible one. No, Gilbert; I had no right to believe that after all I'd done to you, you'd be willing to pay any mind to anything I had to say."

"Anne, these letters meant _everything_ to me," he answered immediately, finally deciding to join her on the glade. "I felt weak, and hopeless and so desperately _alone_ , sure that you had better things to do than concern yourself with my sorry, irrelevant life -"

"Gilbert! Don't you ever dare call it that again!"

"It _felt_ like that, Anne," he insisted, walking as close to her as reason and propriety allowed. "You can blame it on typhoid if you wish and you probably won't be wrong; but it doesn't change the fact that I hardly could find it in myself to hope for a change. It came regardless of my will or lack thereof, undoubtedly to my parents' enormous gratitude – but it was your letters that helped me recover so fast."

For a long while, Anne looked at him in disbelief, not quite able to comprehend – let alone _believe_ – what he had just said to her.

She fixed her eyes onto the ground and shook her head vigorously. "I can't imagine how reading such nonsense could speed your recovery in any way. For all I know, that is _not_ how medicine works."

Gilbert smiled weakly at her. "You seem to forget how much depends on the patient's psyche. And Anne, it wasn't nonsense. Even if it was, I was too overjoyed to realise anything of the sort. All I knew was that, even after everything that had gone wrong between us, my best friend still cared for me deeply enough to worry about me that night. Enough to fear for her own mind to suffer under the pressure. That's more than I could ever have asked for."

"It never should have come to this," Anne whispered flatly before raising her gaze again and boring it into his eyes. "That reaction, that fear, was the only one I could have had after hearing the news of your state. You should not have been surprised about it; you shouldn't have treated it as something extraordinary. I know it seemed to be, but that only makes me feel all the shame again, because I never should have let you believe that I _didn't_ care."

"I suppose we were both rather foolish about it, then," Gilbert stated unexpectedly. "But it's not too late to make amends, is it, Anne? Can't we just put it behind us and... perhaps focus on the contents of these letters instead?"

"I thought we'd just established there wasn't much to talk about," she answered somewhat hastily, as if she'd rather forget the whole business and never come back to this conversation again; her actions matched her tone as she turned away from him and set off towards a fallen tree, 'the woodland throne' as Gilbert had once called it, once again leaving the young man in question to follow her according to his own liking.

Gilbert watched her in silence for some time, smiling to himself at her sudden change of attitude. He had grown to know that part of her in the past, but then again, it had been so long since they had last talked like this that he had almost forgotten what it was like to experience those changes first-hand, as Anne herself had put it.

Of course, he would be naive to assume that he could ever forget anything about her for good.

"That's what you say," he called after her playfully, burying his hands in his pockets and trailing after her. "I, on the other hand, think quite differently on the matter, not to mention that I still hope to get some clarification on the subject."

Anne glanced at him rather unenthusiastically. "And what is it that a Cooper Prize Winner would not understand?"

"To be completely fair, anything," he answered a little more seriously this time as he sat down next to her. "I don't understand anything."

She sighed heavily. "You need to start somewhere, Gil. It's not like I learned these letters by heart."

"Looks like I'm one step ahead of you, then," Gilbert commented with a satisfied grin but, again, seeing Anne's impatience, he schooled his features again and continued, "I don't know, really. There is so much I want to ask, but I can't even be sure if I really should, and then there is the question of what I should begin with while, in all honesty, I don't know how to put any of it into words."

Anne finally offered him the encouraging smile he'd been waiting for and suggested, "How about you start from the easy part?"

"Anne, there is no easy – why would you write about Christine?"

The question had taken her by no small surprise, and once again, Anne Shirley found herself completely and utterly speechless.

Had she been drinking, she would have choked; being as she was, she did not even have the luxury of that particular response. All she could do was stare into those bright, hazel eyes that were once again gazing into her own with expectation while she could hardly think of any way to express what she felt.

She swallowed nervously.

"I thought it rather obvious," she managed to stammer after a while; all she achieved was making Gilbert's brow rise higher at her words. "There was so much talk about you two – around the Convocation especially – and I _did_ see you together myself, so I could only assume..."

The realisation dawned on Gilbert's face, and he would have had to force himself not to laugh at the explanation, had it not been so thoroughly ludicrous at the same time.

"Anne, you couldn't have possibly believed that!" he exclaimed, shocked, as he realised she truly meant what she had said.

"Trust me, Gilbert, I believed many sillier things over the course of my life," she responded in a small voice, not yet able to interpret his protest properly. "And why should I not believe it? You seemed so _happy_ with her. Why is the notion of the pair of you being... romantically involved so baffling all of the sudden?"

It was Gilbert's turn to gaze at her, as if she had just uttered the most absurd of thoughts.

"Christine is engaged to someone else," he said with emphasis. "She had been before she even came to Redmond, and for all I know, she still is engaged to the same happy man now. Our relationship could not have been more platonic, on _both_ sides – and you of all people should know why."

Anne didn't dare to look at him then, too preoccupied with the beating of her heart and the butterflies that seemed to flutter in her stomach at his words. Could it really be that there was nothing there between Christine and him? That all of her silly, petty jealousy had been for nothing, simply because Christine had been promised to another all along?

Could it be that she had heard him correctly when he'd said that that was not even the main reason why he did not care for her?

"I see," she managed to stammer out after a moment, trying desperately to think of anything more eloquent to say, while simultaneously endeavouring not to let him see the hope and sheer happiness that seemed to overcome her against her will. She assumed the most reasonable choice would be to simply continue the subject, and yet, she could not bring herself to do it.

Gilbert saw her agitation and smiled sadly at her.

"There was a lot of talk about it, wasn't there?" he stated rather than asked, tilting his head in a vain attempt to catch her eye. "Anne, I won't pretend that I didn't know about the rumours or the expectations everyone else had. Goodness, I think someone even congratulated me on my impending engagement once! And I know that I could have – _should have_ – corrected those gossips, but in all honesty, I didn't really care about such nonsense spread behind my back, especially as Christine didn't seem too worried about it, either. But most of all, I never thought you could think it to be true."

Again, Anne could only nod in acknowledgement, thinking back to all the times she had heard of the beautiful Miss Stewart and the admirer she had caught. She remembered people smiling somewhat piteously, speaking of the mesalliance she would make if she decided to settle for the poor soon-to-be-doctor from P.E.I., as well as her own vexation at hearing such opinions. Then she had believed it to be caused by nothing but the esteem she had held Gilbert in, helped perhaps by a bit of the islander's pride they had undoubtedly shared.

Now, as she sat by his side, she understood how much more there was to it.

"Well, she certainly treated you better than I often have," she said eventually, hoping he'd understand she referred to more than just his disastrous proposal from two years back and remembering with dismay how kind Christine always seemed toward her friend. "And you did accompany her almost everywhere – you cannot say the rumours were entirely ungrounded."

"Surely they were more so than the gossip _I've_ heard," Gilbert answered her quickly, before he could stop himself.

Anne looked up at him then, her gaze so full of sorrow and shame that Gilbert couldn't help but edge away a little, cursing his own foolishness for allowing him to make a comment of this sort. But he could not withdraw now, either; he had brought the subject up for a reason and now all he _could_ do was address the matter properly.

He sighed heavily, rubbing his hand against his eyes. "I'm sorry for bringing this up. I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable or sad. But there's one thing I haven't told you when I know that I should, and even though it may appear as some unrelated nonsense to you now, I promise you it is quite the opposite in fact." He hesitated for the briefest of moments before admitting, "Anne, I did not read you letters at once."

The mixture of sadness and guilt that reflected in her eyes was quickly replaced with confusion as she gazed back at him, astound.

"But you said that -"

"That they meant a world to me. And they did, Anne, they still do. But I can't pretend I've been so enthusiastic towards them from the start. I would have been, if only I had known the contents; but I had no way of knowing that. I _wanted_ to open that envelope, hoping naively it would be nothing but a friendly note from you – but I couldn't bring myself to it. I was too scared of what I might find inside. But then I read Phil's letter and -"

" _Phil_ wrote to you?" Anne interrupted his explanation, her eyes wide with anticipation and shock. "Why would she – and how could it be of any meaning then?"

Gilbert was looking intensely now, his gaze dark and serious and yet, full of insecurity she had never seen in him before. "Anne, I had no reason to think that your letters would be anything close to what they were. I had next to none to believe you had spent your precious time writing about the meaningless occurrences of everyday life, not after we had hardly spoken to each other for so long. There was only one thing I could think you could have been writing about. And I wasn't ready to see it."

He paused, as if giving Anne the opportunity to chime in, to maybe tell him to stop speaking altogether. She did not; and so he continued, praying silently that his sudden boldness would not be his downfall. "I was sure I would find a wedding announcement in that envelope and yet, I was too much of a coward to face it openly. But then I opened the one from Phil – and learned that I wouldn't have to worry about that announcement for a time now. She didn't give me any details, in fact, she hardly told me anything at all. Only that... That you were not engaged to _him_."

The same guilt reflected in her eyes again, guilt Gilbert could not quite understand. However, she nodded; and that had to be enough for him for now.

"And... that you are not going to be?"

"I refused him, Gil," she answered straightforwardly, her lips trembling with emotion, her voice scarcely more than a whisper. "Roy, he... He proposed to me only a day after Convocation. He made it as romantic as I could only imagine it to be. He was kind and gentle and everything he always had been... And yet, I refused him."

Gilbert's eyes searched her face, wide in astonishment her admission had caused.

"But why?" was all he managed to ask.

"Because I didn't love him," she answered a little impatiently, remembering the talk Phil had given her on that awful day. "Because I'd been blind and stubborn and only realised that the moment he asked for my hand. Because he _didn't belong in my life._ Because..."

_Because he wasn't_ _**you** _ _._

Her eyes were cast down again, fixed on her fingers that had started to tremble uncontrollably at some point during her speech. She felt foolish and unsure again – and yet not at all free from the burden than still seemed to weigh on her soul.

Gilbert cleared his throat; she did not dare to look up at him again.

"I don't suppose there was any other reason for you to reject the poor man at the time?" she heard him ask eventually.

Anne smiled sadly at her knees. "None that I knew of."

Another pause followed their exchange, during which Gilbert seemed to be contemplating his next move with great care, while she wanted nothing but to hear him speak again, even if it was to be another meaningless remark.

Then again, it seemed that _nothing_ was meaningless at this point.

"Anne, I'm sorry," he said in a pained voice after a while, looking at her imploringly. "I'm sorry for not being able to ignore this. For not being capable of staying silent, when I know I should be. I told you I was a patient man – a pathologically patient man – but I'm afraid I can't be one after all, not after... Not after hearing all _this_."

He paused and swallowed, his fists clenched and his eyes boring into her profile in the hope that his gaze, if not his words, would make her look at him. She did not look; and Gilbert could do nothing but continue his fervent declamation.

"Anne, I have made this mistake once – a terrible mistake of speaking too soon or maybe of speaking at all, when you so obviously didn't want me to. And I promise you there is nothing I want less than to repeat it, but unless... Unless you say something to stop me now, I fear I will not be strong enough to do it for myself. Anne!" he exclaimed expectantly and took her hands in his when she still refused to grace him with a glance, let alone her answer. "I... can't do it. I can't pretend I'm calm or collected when I'm everything but. You ask me what your letters meant – and I tell you, they meant _life_. They brought me back to it, together with Phil's. They gave me an aim, a reason, a _cause..._ I was lost and they showed me the way. I was wanting hope and they gave me faith. You can't know – you can't imagine what it was to wake up from the fever and learn that you cared for me… that you were no longer _his_ I didn't dare to call you mine, either, but that itself was enough. It was enough to make me want to fight again – for anything at all."

Anne's heart beat wildly at this confession and she glanced at Gilbert in spite of herself. Her eyes were misty with happiness and shock and it only took a second before she turned away again, not trusting herself at this moment. Gilbert, who only saw one of the emotions playing in her grey eyes – and the less favourable one – stopped abruptly, not sure whether he should withdraw. But Anne had not interrupted him; she had not told him to drop the subject when there was still time.

Hesitantly, he slid on his knee, her hands still firmly in his. Again, she did not protest.

"Anne, I beg of you, _look at me_ ," he pleaded in a small, broken voice. "Don't think I forgot what you told me in the orchard. I could not forget your words even if I wanted to – they've rung in my ears for the past two years, they echoed in my head during the fever. I _know_ that I asked for too much back then, for something you said I could never, _never_ have..." his voice cracked further but he did not seem to care. "I promised myself that I would never ask for it again, that I would never hurt you with my selfishness like this. But now... With your letters... I can't point out the reason why they seemed so different, but they did. And maybe I'm being a fool reading into signs that are not even there. But even if that's the case, I _cannot_ have you think I don't care for you when I myself can't imagine caring any more than I already do. Than I always have."

His gaze dropped at their joint hands, and he drew in a deep breath before shifting his gaze up at her again.

"Anne, I am fairly sure this is not what you've expected of me and that you are most probably disappointed seeing how weak I am after all. But I am less of a fool than you might think. I... I don't dare to hope, Anne, I don't dare to _ask..._ Just pray tell me – tell me if I have a _chance_."

She looked at him then, her gaze strangely wistful yet by no means bleak. And yet, her words were like iron to his faint, unguarded heart.

"I'm so sorry, Gil."

Gilbert's reaction to them was as violent as it was expected. His jaw tightened in the pain he could not afford to speak of – his breath caught in his throat for a second too long. When Anne gazed at him she saw the same face, _white to the lips_ , the same haunted expression of his eyes that she had seen when he'd come to profess his love for the first time. But the Anne who sat before him now was not the same Anne he had asked then – not the one who had hurt him with her refusal.

It was her who wouldn't let go of his hand when he tried to free it this time.

"No, please, wait," she asked of him instead, clenching her fingers on his and even pulled his hands a little closer to stop him from springing to his feet as he undoubtedly wanted to do. His gaze darted back to her and she smiled weakly in response. "I _am_ sorry, but not for any of the reasons you may think of. I'm sorry that you think you have to ask all this. Not only that you have to ask _again_ , but that you have to ask at all, because my answer is not obvious enough. That you still feel you need to make sure when I want you so badly to know it without asking. I'm sorry for confusing you, _again_ , because I failed to make myself clear."

Gilbert's eyes widened. "Anne, you can't possibly mean -"

"I love you, Gilbert," came her resolute, unwavering answer, immediately followed by a smile much wider and surer than any smile she had ever gifted him with. "I know this is sudden – unexpected – I feared it would come as unwanted, too. But I _do_ , and I _have_ for such a long time, too, even though I could never tell you _how_ long exactly. I realised it that night when I learnt about your fever. Davy told me you were dying when I was on the porch of Green Gables... And by the time I reached my own little room I knew I could not live on if you were not to be there with me. I was so _scared,_ " she nearly cried out, while the first tears glistened in her eyes, but she paid them no mind. "So terribly, terribly scared that my realisation had come too late and that you'd die not knowing how much you meant to me... _That's_ why I wrote to you. Because it felt like the only way for me not to go mad on the spot."

Anne laughed openly then, her laughter not of trivial mirth but of the sheer happiness that filled her all being as her confession had finally been made. Gilbert stared at her in awe for a moment, trying to comprehend the marvel of the scene, before he too laughed in unison with her. But nothing could stop him from standing up now. And so he did, pulling Anne to her feet with him and embracing her lovingly, with the eagerness only a heart once broken and now healed could command.

She clung to him tightly, her whole figure shaking with laughter and tears and tension that she finally let herself release, while he buried his face in her hair, drinking in the closeness he had long stopped hoping for.

"Anne, darling, please tell me this is real," he whispered into her locks, not quite daring to believe his own senses and mind. "Please tell me that it's not just another dream from which I'll have to wake up way too soon. Tell me this is going to last. That I haven't gone mad yet."

"I say yes to all," she answered him solemnly, despite the smile that still would not leave her lips. "Even though you must be mad to want me after everything that has passed between us. But seeing how I'm positively mad for you, I say we'll match just fine."

It was then that Gilbert pulled away, freeing her from his grip and using his hands to cup her flushed, rosy cheeks instead.

"You're serious about this, aren't you?" he asked in a hushed, yet hopeful voice. "You really have changed your mind?"

"I don't think there was anything to change, Gil," she answered him sweetly. "Only things to learn and see."

"And you truly love me?"

"I do."

"It isn't just pity that tells you to have mercy on me?"

Anne's eyebrows flew up in indignation. "Of course it's not!"

"And I'm not just a second choice to you?"

"Gilbert Blythe, if you're going to spoil this moment with ridiculous inquiries like these -"

"Anne," he cut her off softly. "Just answer the question."

Anne rolled her eyes. "You're not. _Of course_ you are not."

Gilbert's smile grew wide and slightly mischievous, but his tone was gentle when he said, "Does this mean I can ask you, then?"

It took her a few seconds to realise what this last question of his really meant for them, and when she did, she was too taken aback to give him a proper answer. But the smile that blossomed on her face was all too bright and certain to leave any doubt about what answer it would be. She forced herself to nod; for Gilbert that was sign enough.

He took her hands in his again and kissed her fingers. Anne was sure her heart would jump straight out of her chest.

"Will you marry me, Anne?"

A wave of infinite happiness came over her as she cried her most eager _'Yes!'_ , a feeling that could only be rivalled by those swirling in Gilbert's own heart. He drew her close; he leaned towards her; and then he kissed her, with all the passion and longing of a love nursed and fed for a decade, to be met with the eagerness of one just discovered but for that all the more cherished and heartfelt.

As they stood together like this, Anne's thoughts went to the letters she had so hastily written less than two weeks before, and hovered over the three signatures she had put under them.

There was nothing more sincere than the love they'd just confessed; the love to which they would remain faithful to for the rest of their days.

And she was, at last, _his_.

_His Anne._

  



End file.
